


Angelus Domini

by manic_intent



Series: Pater Noster [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angel!Lestrade, Demon!Mycroft, Good Omens crossover, M/M, Wingfic, wingkink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-19
Updated: 2012-11-19
Packaged: 2017-11-19 01:31:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/567524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first realization that something was possibly very wrong came when Lestrade woke up to members of MI6 efficiently searching the house.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angelus Domini

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ragenserenity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ragenserenity/gifts).



> Written for ragenserenity, who asked for Mystrade: Mycroft disappears without a trace.

I.

The first realization that something was possibly very wrong came when Lestrade woke up to members of MI6 efficiently searching the house. Disoriented, he stared blearily at the sleek men and women in identical suits efficiently ransacking the furniture, then at the alarm clock by the side of the bed - _4:06_ \- then back to them before thinking to grope for the Glock under his pillow.

"I wouldn't do that," a woman said quietly, standing beside the bed, tapping at a Blackberry, "We're friends."

"I don't think I've ever had friends break into the house and rummage through all my things before," Lestrade rasped, thought belatedly of Sherlock, and added, "Not usually." Still, if the house had let MI6 in, then they had to be Mycroft's minions-

"Get dressed, Inspector. I'll bring you up to speed. I'm Allison," Allison added unemotionally, as an afterthought, "I'll be in the kitchen."

'Allison' had prepared coffee and toast, just the way Lestrade liked it, and she was perched on one of the hand-carved oak stools, still on her Blackberry. 

Unnerved, Lestrade sat down, and let caffeine do its work. "This is about Mycroft, isn't it?"

"Sadly, it would be a rather unusual day should MI6 devote so much manpower to the personal life of a detective Inspector."

The girl didn't bloody know half of it, Lestrade felt, but he said nothing, sipping at his coffee. Under the lock, his grace stirred, restless with his growing unease. It wasn't unusual for Mycroft to disappear for weeks without notice, caught up with his favourite hobby - human politics - and Lestrade had never thought very much about it. After all, at least for him, Mycroft was always just a name away. 

"What happened?"

"We were hoping that you would know, Inspector," Allison said calmly. "Mister Holmes vanished from his office twenty days ago without a trace. Although it isn't... unusual by any means for Mister Holmes to take abrupt leaves of absences, he has usually returned within a week, and is always available to discuss matters via email or telephone."

Lestrade had a brief, amusing mental image of Mycroft directing Parliament from the ninth circle of Hell, but Allison stared mildly at him until his grin faded. "Sorry. So. Uh. Not answering the phone, is he?"

"You don't seem worried, Inspector."

The statement was elegant in its understated accusation, and Lestrade snorted. "I haven't murdered him and done away with the body, if that's what you're saying. Look. Mycroft has a lot of... personal business that he has to look over now and then, all right? He doesn't tell me about it. He's got priorities over his work."

"Priorities over running the British government?"

This time, Lestrade managed to fight his grin on time. "Sure." Humans had always been so very convinced of their self-importance. Lestrade had always found that rather endearing. "I'll see if I can get through to him. Keep you updated if you like."

"I think that you're not taking this seriously enough, Inspector. Perhaps you think that this is a prank. It's possible that Mister Holmes has not divulged the extent of his involvement in the government-"

"I know he's bloody important," Lestrade interrupted with a sigh. "But he's not here, and you're not going to find any clues rampaging through our house. He'll come back, all right? He loves his h... his _job_. Just don't panic."

The girl eyeballed him, but she had nothing on the archangels, and Lestrade smiled blandly back at her until she slipped off the table and passed him a business card. "Please call me at any time."

"All right." Lestrade sat at the table and slowly finished his breakfast, sitting quietly until he was fairly sure that he was alone in the house, then he said, "Mycroft."

Nothing happened, and Lestrade began to frown, as he looked around, tilting his head. "At least send your minions a text, even if you don't want to talk to me. Mycroft?"

When there was still a resounding amount of nothing, Lestrade grimaced, and picked up the phone.

An hour later, an exhausted looking John opened the door for him at 221B, but Sherlock seemed as preternaturally alert as ever from the armchair, his fingers steepled. "So my brother's missing." 

"Yeah." Lestrade looked over the other armchair for wayward experiments before lowering himself into it. "His minions are worried."

"I know. They've been here," Sherlock shrugged, even as John mumbled something about 'bloody angels and demons' and trundled back up the stairs towards his room, presumably to pass out. "This is unusual for Mycroft."

"He left the bloody War to play with London. I don't think he'd just get bored all of a sudden and run off without a word," Lestrade rubbed at his face, stifling another yawn. "He didn't say anything to you?"

"We don't talk," Sherlock retorted, his face pinched at the very thought. 

"All right," Lestrade muttered, worried now despite himself, "Can you get into the Diogenes club?"

"His minions would already have searched that," Sherlock said dismissively, seemingly bored again. "Why should I care? Why should you? He's gone. Isn't that what you came to Earth for?"

"I'm..." Lestrade stared at Sherlock, startled, added, "But he's your-" and cut himself off, a wry grin twitching onto his mouth. "Well." Maybe he should have known better than to expect help from Sherlock. Despite mellowing slowly to Mycroft, Sherlock had still treated Mycroft's presence - and influence - with suspicion at best, hostility at worst. 

"You've known him far longer than I have. You know his true nature. Don't get sentimental just because you've opted out of your War," Sherlock suggested quietly.

And there it was, Lestrade supposed, blinking slowly, as the unease returned, curling cold and heavy within his soul, his grace stirring helplessly again. It was sentiment.

II.

Work helped dull the growing, restless unease that Lestrade felt about the whole situation, and he'd even managed to calm down over the next two days. Mycroft was one of the most powerful daemons that Lestrade had ever met, after all. He was hardly incapable of taking care of himself. And besides, even if something _had_ happened, miraculously, whatever it might be, Lestrade supposed that if he put the matter of his punishment from Heaven and his... relationship with Mycroft aside, he was still an angel. He still heeded Heaven's Will. And if Heaven had moved against Mycroft conclusively, then Lestrade could not stand in its way.

So resolved, however unhappily, Lestrade was leafing through his squad's written reports on an open and close domestic when he glanced up to see a woman curled on the seat facing his desk, gorgeous and fashionable, her wide, dark eyes and red cupid's mouth all paeans to mortal temptation. Frowning, Lestrade glanced out of his office, but no one seemed to have noticed her presence, and he sat up warily as his grace woke, struggling, dimly sensing the touch of power in the room as the daemon smiled. 

"Hello, Lestriel. I've heard so much about you. We haven't met," she added, as Lestriel stared, frozen. "Call me Adler."

"What do you want?"

"Mm, now," Adler looked him over, her smile lazy, almost hungry. "I can see the temptation, I suppose, and I do know temptation. A pure, helpless little angel, tangled in enough mortality to know pleasure. Mycroft's taste is exquisite."

"Where's Mycroft?" Lestrade demanded, even as he ran through his current defences - nil, even to weaker daemons - although he supposed the Glock might help against those, if only to delay them, Adler's easy air of confidence wasn't encouraging. He'd been careless.

"About to be... reassigned. That's the word that the angels would use," Adler mused, and there was malice now, in her tone. "He's lingered on Earth for too long. Wasted his considerable talents at war by playing house with humanity."

"And you're his replacement?"

"Temporarily. I volunteered. I wanted to see what could have absorbed the attention of the so-called Great Tactician for so very long. Oh, don't worry. I'm not interested in his amusing little properties, and they're still warded so _rudely_ tight. But I thought to pay Heaven's agent a bit of a courtesy call."

"I'm not part of the War any longer," Lestrade said warily.

"So I've heard. But there aren't any other angels in this sprawling artery of human excess, are there?"

"Mycroft's efficient," Lestrade noted, "And I doubt he'll be very forgiving of any encroachment on his territory. Even if it's from his own 'side'." 

"He has other matters to worry about at present, I'm afraid," Adler drawled, unimpressed. "Questions have been raised about his devotion to our Father. He has, after all, been rather lax in maintaining his rank and influence."

It was a little comforting to realize that rampant backstabbing still existed in the daemonic ranks. Lestrade had thought that it had been tamped down after hostilities had segued into skirmishes rather than outright battle. Still, he didn't like the prospects: Adler's presence was telling enough that Mycroft was probably in trouble.

"Oh, don't worry, little angel," Adler reached over to pat his hand, grinning when he flinched and jerked it away, "He may be punished, but they won't end him. Hell still needs its Tactician. But onward to business. About your rather comfortable arrangement with Mycroft. I wouldn't mind perpetrating it... in every aspect. You'll find me a far more attentive companion, Lestriel."

Disgust roiled his stomach, and as Lestrade grit his teeth, Adler laughed, throaty and mocking. "Sentiment, angel? I should have known that it would be so. I look forward to working against you, then. But if you ever change your mind... call me." 

With that, Adler vanished, and Lestrade hastily drank down his morning's forgotten cup of coffee until the mild panic subsided. Theoretically, he thought, as he bowed his head, rubbing his hands over and through his hair, theoretically this was nothing new; he'd faced daemons for centuries, since his creation. But Adler was mistaken in thinking that Lestrade still watched over London, and in any regard, with Mycroft gone, the balance could right itself again. Heaven could and should send over another.

Letting out a breath, Lestrade got up and walked over to get his coat. He was going to have to go to church.

III.

St Paul's was crowded with tourists, and Lestrade stood awkwardly just outside the Whispering Gallery, gritting his teeth. He took another breath, then another, just for luck, and stepped into it, folding his hands into his pockets. Self consciously, keeping an eye on the tourists, he muttered, " _Pater noster, qui es in caelis-_ "

"Lestriel." The space beside him was empty, and then it wasn't. A woman stood beside him, dressed simply in a white shirt and gray pants, her hands folded behind her back, her face ageless, touched at the edges of her eyes with laugh lines, mousy brown hair combed into a tight bun.

Lestrade concentrated. "Ezekiel."

"We know why you are here." Ezekiel watched him with a neutral calm. "So _Babylōn ē Megalē_ has come to Earth." 

Startled, Lestriel could only stare. "But the seals - surely Revelation has not yet begun."

"The seals do not restrain her to Hell, Lestriel, only choice. It _is_ curious that she has chosen to leave." Ezekiel folded her hands behind her back. "Perhaps advantageous, if she can be disposed of."

"Wouldn't that be off script?"

Ezekiel sniffed. "Hardly. But it would create a power imbalance in Hell until her position is refilled. That may give us some respite on the Bone Plains." 

"All right. Good luck." Lestrade decided. "And, uh, I guess if whoever's coming needs help or a place to kip, I can try and arrange something."

"Whoever's coming?"

"My replacement?"

"There won't be one."

"What?" Lestrade blinked. "What makes Heaven think that I'll stand any bloody chance at all against Adler? My _grace_ is locked. I'm _human_. Even if I was at full strength - she's one of the Named. She's stronger than I ever was."

"You've learned cunning," Ezekiel lifted a shoulder. "And you're resourceful. Heaven acknowledges that. Besides, she's learned to hide herself from us, somehow. You, on the other hand, you have other ways to locate creatures that don't require grace."

"So it's a 'thanks for the warning, but good luck, see you later'?" Lestrade growled. "I'm not part of the War any longer, Ezekiel. Fight Adler without me." 

"Certainly, we could send someone at her strength to face her, but the resultant battle would be... catastrophic. We need this city and its souls, and I think that you've grown rather attached to it." Ezekiel pointed out mildly. "There's no method available to replenish your lost grace, but as to the lock," Ezekiel reached out suddenly, pressing her palm against Lestrade's back, and even as he instinctively flinched away, he felt a _shift_ , a circling stretch, and then he exhaled, gritty and loud, as he felt his grace resettle eagerly against his vessel, slotting back into place. "There."

"It's still not going to do me any bloody good!"

"And this," Ezekiel ignored him, pulling a sheathed dagger out of the ether and handing it to him. "Ehud's blade."

"Uh." Lestrade took the blessed steel awkwardly. "I really don't think... oh." Ezekiel was gone. 

Well. That hadn't been helpful.

IV.

"Melt it down," Sherlock said brusquely, when Lestrade reluctantly surrendered the blade for inspection after an hour of Sherlock's nagging. "Cast it into bullets."

Sherlock and John had somehow bumbled into Adler's path - or, Lestrade felt, more correctly, she had probably simply been curious about the rest of Mycroft's 'interests'. Thankfully, the humans had survived with only bruises to their pride, but although John looked rueful, Sherlock was furious, stalking back and forth in the living room of 221B. 

"I don't think so," Lestrade said carefully. 

"The steel is what makes it holy, isn't it? Melt it down."

"No, and give it back here." Lestrade confiscated the blade hastily and hid it back under his jacket. It was an awkward fit strapped to his holster, but he had to admit that he felt slightly better about the whole situation with its presence.

"Weren't you meant to take care of her? A shot to the head would suffice."

"That's not how the War is fought."

"Oh, certainly," Sherlock sneered, as he flung himself into the spare armchair, clearly still caught up in his high dudgeon. "How is it fought then? Verbal sparring over high tea? Or are you going to fall into bed with her?"

Lestrade closed his eyes, even as John growled, " _Sherlock_."

There was a pause, then a muttered, contrite, "Sorry."

"She hasn't broken any laws that I'm aware of," Lestrade said, with a nod of acknowledgment at the apology. Sherlock _was_ getting better. "And she's been lying low."

"Possibly because she's waiting to see if Heaven will send a replacement. Once she realizes that it isn't," Sherlock observed, his tone distant, as though calculating possibilities, "That's when the damage will start. If you're not about to change that hopelessly ancient weapon into any usable form, then I suppose that the only way to go about ameliorating the situation is to get Mycroft to return. I suppose he's marginally more bearable."

"I'm surprised that you've even considered that," Lestrade said dryly, and Sherlock pulled a face.

"Besides, Mummy's been asking after him," Sherlock muttered. "I've told her time and again that he's a demon, and she simply just tells me not to be rude. Women."

John laughed, startled, even as Lestrade covered his mouth and coughed. Mycroft had never mentioned the Holmes family before, other than Sherlock, though Lestrade supposed that he likely kept up appearances for simplicity's sake. "Anyway," Lestrade cleared his throat, "I can't see how we could get around doing that. I'm not exactly welcome in Hell."

"Let me think of something," Sherlock decided. 

"All right. Just don't... blow anything up."

V.

Whatever Adler was doing, it was above Lestrade's radar, and although Sherlock was snooping around, he was also drawing a blank. It seemed that Adler was either just doing nothing, which Lestrade rather doubted, or she was being far subtler than he could detect.

And then Sherlock, with his usual irresistible pull for mayhem, had somehow bumbled into taking up a case for British royalty, of all things, and blundered right back into Adler's path, and the resultant chaos had Lestrade sitting in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, awkwardly trying to calm down a shell-shocked elderly lady while his team gave the house a routine work over. To his relief, Donovan eventually arrived, and handing over the situation to his sergeant, Lestrade went back upstairs, where Sherlock was fuming and glaring at the forensics people peering at the broken window. 

"Tell them to get out," he told Lestrade brusquely. "We're wasting time. We have to go after her. There's been a lead, and Anderson's presence in the room is vastly reducing my cognition skills."

"Give us ten minutes," Lestrade told Anderson, who scowled at Sherlock before leading his team out. "We can't do that." 

"Why not? You have a magic knife, or whatever it is," Sherlock gestured vaguely at his jacket. "And I know what she's here for. She brought something up with her from Hell. She's planning on hiding it here, on Earth."

"And how do you know that?"

"Oh, with this and that," Sherlock said vaguely, even as John added, "We broke into her house and talked to her."

"What?"

" _John_ ," Sherlock shot his roommate a brief glare. 

"You're lucky that she didn't kill the both of you!"

"We weren't planning on being _caught_ ," Sherlock stated, looking offended, "But since we were, I felt that we might as well ascertain what she was doing." 

"She was hiding something in a wall safe. She picked it up on Sherlock's ruse. It was a box." John ignored Sherlock's scowl. "Black, like it was carved out of obsidian."

"Poetic but probably incorrect." Sherlock sulked. "We left when some other daemons showed up-"

" _What?_ "

"-and while they were posturing, we decided to make a tactical retreat. Unfortunately on our return," Sherlock made an irritable gesture at the window. "I suppose she must have sent a minion here to scare us off."

"There are other daemons here? In London?" 

"Oh, do keep up, Lestriel," Sherlock growled. "She spoke to them in some snarling language that couldn't be human, and they replied."

"Right," Lestrade pinched at the bridge of his nose. "Pack up. Mrs Hudson, too. You are all moving into the Mayfair house. It's warded, and I can't afford to keep an eye on you all the time. Heaven knows what's happening, but it's not safe for any of you." 

"I'm not going to move into one of _his_ houses," Sherlock snapped, even as John murmured, "But then I'll have to take a train and a bus to get to work-"

"Shut up and get moving!"

VI.

Given how Lestrade's life had been fumbling along to date, he probably shouldn't have been entirely surprised that he'd had to end up attempting and failing to sneak up on a far more powerful daemon in an abandoned factory.

He found her in the large processing room, the machinery and vats lining the walls long rusted silent, and she smiled directly at him from where he had thought that he was hiding in the shadows.

"Lestriel. Those mudras might have worked once, were you stronger, but I can sense you." 

So much for stealth. Lestrade padded out from behind a lattice of piping, Ehud's blade gripped tightly in his palm. Adler glanced at it briefly, but her smile remained lush and inviting. 

"This matter does not concern you, Lestriel. Leave. You're no match for me."

"Well, that's hurtful, that is." Lestriel said dryly, "You didn't volunteer, did you? You ran away. You're not meant to be up above ground, not until Revelation. What did you steal? It must have been something that could hide your signature, or the rest would have found you by now."

Adler narrowed her eyes. "Leave, Lestriel."

"Heaven knows where you are."

"They know that I'm in London. But they can't sense me. Instead, they had to rely on an old angel with almost no powers to find me the way a human would," Adler drawled. "And he did. Congratulations. But they thought only to arm him with a little blade. This won't end well, angel."

"Why did you leave Hell?"

Adler growled, serrated and hissing, "That is none of your concern." 

"Maybe it is."

The daemon shifted her weight, watching him silently, then she stated, "I tired of Hell. Tired of my role, my responsibilities. Tired of knowing that my one function was to rise to Earth during Revelation, and be murdered for it. I sought to leave. The upheaval that the Tactician wrought upon his forced return to Hell provided me with an opportunity. I took it."

"Upheaval?"

"Oh, you did not think that he would have gone quietly, did you?" Adler's smile was malicious, now. "But he has fewer allies now than he used to."

"And the other daemons, they're looking to bring you home?" At Adler's tight nod, Lestriel sighed, and after a moment's thought, sheathed the dagger. When he glanced up, the daemon blinked, surprised. "Leave London. Go to Paris, it's nicer. Or Italy, wherever you want. Just leave."

"My dear little angel," Adler said dryly, "I chose London for a reason. Heaven's agent here is weak. And sentimental, it would seem." 

"Thanks. You're not making any friends here, by the way." Lestrade said dryly.

"I made an offer to you. Same deal as Mycroft. Leave me alone, and I'll leave you alone." 

"Heaven will send someone else sooner or later."

"And they won't find me without your resources," Adler shot back.

"And you think that I won't help them?"

"I'm asking you not to."

"I won't," Lestrade said quietly. "I can't."

Adler shook her head, steadily. "You can, little angel. You've defied them before. Do it again." 

"I've never disobeyed." 

"Not outright, perhaps," Adler straightened up, "But I see that it's pointless to argue. If you'll move against me, then I'll have to deal with you."

"I'm asking you again. Leave. If you kill me, Heaven will just send a replacement, someone stronger. And besides, Hell's already found you here once."

"Only because they followed Mycroft's clever little pets. I'll be more careful." Adler smiled lazily. "Get rid of his pets, perhaps." 

Lestrade should have known. Wearily, he drew the blade again. "I've tried to warn you."

"Don't bluster, little angel. It doesn't suit you."

"I wasn't." Lestrade stepped forward, raising his blade a little awkwardly - it had been centuries since he had last laid hands on this sort of weaponry, and Adler smiled, contemptuous, standing her ground as he approached. When she arched, hissing in warning, Lestrade sucked in a breath, hoping that the somewhat more reliable component of the Sherlock-John backup had moved into position-

-John was a frighteningly good shot. There was a tinkle of glass, then Adler's head snapped to the side at the impact, as the bullet tore into the back of her skull - not that _that_ would do anything more than distract a daemon like her - but a distraction was all that Lestrade was looking for. Lunging forward, he cut through the strap of her purse with a swipe and grabbed it, trying to suppress the writhing panic from his grace as it felt his proximity to whatever Hell's artefact was - and made a run for it. 

Or tried to. 

Adler landed on his back, snarling, and Lestrade rolled as another shot rang out, slamming into her shoulder and knocking her off balance enough for him to squirm free, but then, furious, she _roared_ , unfurling her full energy signature. Lestrade staggered, gasped, backpedalled, walked straight into something immovable, panicked, lashed out, and froze as Mycroft grasped his wrist, his free hand curled around the small of his back. 

"Lestriel. Well done." 

"You," Adler snarled, though she seemed hesitant now, taking a step back, frightened. 

"Go," Mycroft said quietly, and when he smiled, there was malice there, anticipation. "Run while you can." 

Adler shot Lestrade a glance, her face pinched, as she opened her mouth, then she seemed to think better of it and vanished. 

Belatedly, Lestrade awkwardly sheathed the dagger. "Well, you took your bloody time to show up."

"I was occupied." Mycroft took Adler's purse from him. "And until you removed the Eye from her, I had to wait."

"And you're so sure that she wouldn't have killed us all instead?"

"You underestimate yourself." When Lestrade opened his mouth to snap another retort, Mycroft kissed him instead, hard and possessive, hungry, took his mouth until Lestrade was flushed and breathless. "I need to return this to where it belongs. Then I will return to you." 

"Thought... I thought you were having some sort of problem with being allowed to come back up here." 

"I was." Mycroft opened the purse, reaching in to pick up a black box, tossing the ruined bag away, then with a flick of his wrist, the box disappeared. "But now I find myself in a better bargaining position."

VII.

By the time Lestrade herded Sherlock and John home to the Mayfair House - no telling whether Adler might be out for revenge or a bargaining chip - settled down Mrs Hudson, called the Yard to assure Donovan that he wasn't dead, stopped Sherlock from conducting some experiment with the oven, and got John to agree to postpone his evening date with Sarah, he was exhausted, annoyed, and had collapsed into bed.

He woke up to Mycroft removing his shoes, his feet balanced in the daemon's lap, the filthy loafers discarded at the foot of the bed, then he had to bite down on a groan as Mycroft smiled at him in the dark and stroked the palm of his hand slyly up the arch of his left foot. 

"I didn't shower," Lestrade murmured in half-hearted protest, though he leaned up when Mycroft rubbed possessive circles up over his thighs to his ribs, unbuttoning his shirt with impatient fingers and pulling it off with almost enough force to tear it. Grinning, Lestrade concentrated, reaching for his wings, bracing himself for the ache, and as they unfolded, Mycroft let out a tight, high breath. 

"When?"

"Heaven thought it might help against Adler, or something like that," Lestrade said dryly, then he frowned when Mycroft nuzzled his shoulder instead of reaching immediately for the wings. "Something... something wrong?"

"Mm," Mycroft nipped up to his neck, making him shiver, "I don't want to reinforce any erroneous assumptions that you may have."

"What assumptions?"

"That your wings are why I want you." 

"Oh, you bloody pillock," Lestrade growled, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's deceptively slender waist and dragging him down, then curling his wings over them both, bumping the thick ridges affectionately over his ribcage, meshing flight feathers down his back and thighs. "I recognise that I was being stupid that time, all right?"

"Very much so." Mycroft tickled his clever fingers deep into the thick layers of feathers, and chuckled when Lestrade moaned and pushed his wings eagerly into his touch. Deft fingers worked down to the sensitive roots, and Lestrade wasn't particularly sure when he went from being somewhat in control of himself to rubbing frantically against the sheets, cheek pressed into the pillow, back arched under Mycroft's teeth, wings a shaking wreck of ecstasy on the bed. Dimly, he could briefly register Mycroft dragging off the rest of their clothes, then he let out a hoarse shout as teeth sank into the root of a wing. 

Mycroft laughed at that, husky and low, the bloody bastard, and then he was whispering hotly against Lestrade's ear, his arousal pressed teasingly against his arse. "What do you want, Lestriel?"

Blissed out and dazed, Lestrade said the first thing on his mind. "Fuck me, then come on my wings." 

Mycroft froze against him, just as Lestrade's brain finally clawed up to speed with his words. Flushed, he was about to stutter something, only to squeak as Mycroft's hands clenched over his wings just as he bit down again, the daemon's full energy signature unfolding, chokingly intense, the sensation blazingly bright over his grace and Lestrade yowled, almost coming from that alone, but for long fingers curling tight at the base of his cock.

"Not yet," Mycroft growls, and his voice was barely human now, dissonant and guttural like everything that humanity had ever feared from the dark, and Lestrade groaned. "You'll come on my cock or not at all."

"Oh." Lestrade gasped breathlessly, then, " _Yes_ ," as Mycroft conjured slick out of nowhere and pressed an impatient finger into him. The prep was rough and quick, but Lestrade was far past caring, as a hand clenched over a wing and the daemon lined himself up behind him and pushed in, gritty and inexorable and Heaven, it was always so _good_ \- 

Mycroft's self control lasted until Lestrade ducked his head, braced himself against the headboard and shoved back against the first thrust, wings arching for balance, then the daemon had an iron grip on his hips, snarling in daemonic as he slammed into him, his thrusts brutal, bruising, punching the breath from Lestrade's frame, exhilarating. He wasn't going to last, his arms ached already even with the threads of his grace and when Mycroft reared back to bite down on the arch of his right wing, Lestrade screamed and spilled, untouched, onto the sheets, sobbing in heaving breaths as Mycroft ignored him, not even slowing. 

His arms had given out and his wings were limp by the time the daemon finally let up, and Lestrade knew that he was going to be wearing a string of purpling bruises up his flank and hips tomorrow, but he still whined when Mycroft pulled away with a grunt, shifting up his back, the sound of his hand slick over his own flesh, then Lestrade hissed and heaved up his wings as he felt the thick, hot fluid spurt over his feathers, filthy, perfect, whimpering as Mycroft let out a strangled groan. The daemon's hands were shaking when they pressed reverently over his back, over bruised flesh, then Lestrade let out a moan as he felt Mycroft lick up over the mess on his feathers, lapping them clean. 

"What brought that on?" Mycroft inquired, later, when Lestrade was smuggling against him, wings sprawled lazily over them and the bed.

"Um." Lestrade felt his cheeks burn in embarrassment. "Well."

"Lestriel."

"I might of missed you," Lestrade muttered, and raised his chin defiantly, daring the daemon to laugh, but Mycroft's returning stare was intense with something far beyond lust, opaque with more than obsession, and he rolled, pinning Lestrade to the bed to kiss him as though he were drowning, curling up against the wings that closed over his back.

VIII.

Lestrade had long figured out the best way to wash down his wings without embarrassing himself by needing assistance, though he was still annoyed when he had to trudge down shirtless for breakfast, his wings still damp and starting to smell like wet carpets.

"Mycroft, why didn't you bloody put my wings away... oh." 

John dropped his cup on the table, spilling his tea, even as Mrs Hudson sat up straight and Sherlock stared. Mycroft was seated with his back facing Lestrade, reading the morning paper, and he sighed. 

"I didn't think that you would be up to breakfast yet, my dear."

"What in Heaven's name are all of you still doing here?"

"We were invited? By you?" John reminded him, his eyes round like saucers. "Oh. Wow. Wings. Big. Wings. Halo."

"Yes, very clearly so, John," Sherlock shot to his feet, only to sit back down as though his strings were cut. He glowered at Mycroft. "I just want to have a look." 

"No." Mycroft growled, and a chair pulled itself back at the table. Annoyed, Lestrade sat down, awkwardly folding back his wings, then he relaxed as Mycroft pressed a palm against them, folding them away. "Coffee?"

"Shirt." Mycroft pulled a shirt out of the air, and Lestrade buttoned it on hastily, still flushed with embarrassment. He was never going to be able to look Mrs Hudson in the eye again. 

Sherlock sighed explosively, rolling his eyes, and Mycroft snorted, though a palm splayed over Lestrade's thigh, under the table. "Right then," Lestrade murmured, reaching over for the pot of coffee, the metal warm under his fingers.

"Wings," John tried again, still blinking.

"Oh, shut up, John," Sherlock growled peevishly, and instead of feeling self-conscious all over again, Lestrade smiled instead, and poured himself a cup of coffee. 

The morning was going to be _brilliant_.

**Author's Note:**

> 6/15 down!


End file.
